Читать книгу Came to Believe - Anonymous - Страница 10

Exposed to the Fellowship of A.A. for over six years, I had known in that time three relapses, brutal and dismal episodes. Each increased my self-abasement and hopelessness. Sober once again, settled into a minor job, I learned that there was satisfaction in the accomplishment of even menial tasks and that humility—applied as teachability and the search for truth—could be a higher power in disguise.

Then, unexpectedly, I was offered an executive job, involving many responsibilities. I could answer only, “I’ll have to think about it.”

Was I capable of staying sober? Was I really sober or only dry? Could I handle the responsibilities entailed and cope with renewed success? Or would God permit me to punish myself again?

I called a woman friend whom I was sponsoring. We talked it over, and she believed I could and should take the offer. Her faith reassured me; I knew the stimulation of being able to feel dignity again and gratification just to be alive. This newfound sense remained with me throughout the A.A. meeting we attended that evening. The subject under discussion was Step Eleven: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.”

Home in the privacy of my room, I had another shock—a letter from my sister. I had seen her last in a sheriff’s office, where she had regretfully ended the family’s long effort to help me. “Even our prayers seem hopeless,” she had said, “so I’ll leave you to fend for yourself.” Now came her letter, pleading to know where and how I was. Looking out the window at the soot and dirt of the rooftops and then inside at the meanness of my room, I thought with bitterness, “Yes indeed, if only they could see me now!” The saving grace was that I had nothing more to lose and naught to ask from anyone. Or had I?

All my youthful ideals had been washed away by alcohol. Now all the dreams and aspirations, family, position—everything I had once known—came back to jeer at me. I remembered hiding behind the trees in front of my former home to see my children go by the window; phoning my family just to hear familiar voices say, “Hello, hello—who’s there?” before I hung up.

Sitting down on the bed, I picked up the letter and read it again and again. In my anguish, I could stand no more. Desperately, I cried, “Oh God, did You desert me? Or did I desert You?”

How much time went by, I don’t know. Rising, I seemed to be drawn to the window. I beheld a transformation! The smut of that industrial city had disappeared under a covering of fresh snow. Everything was new and white and clean. Falling to my knees, I renewed that conscious contact with my God I had known as a boy. I didn’t pray; I just talked. I didn’t think; I just unburdened a heavy heart and a lost soul. I didn’t thank; I only begged for help.

That night, finally at peace with myself for the first time in years, I slept the whole night through and awakened without fear and dread of another day. Continuing my prayer of the night before, I said, “I’ll take the job. But, dear God, let’s You and I play it together from now on.”

While some days may offer only a modicum of frantic serenity, twenty-six years later I still know the same inner tranquility that comes with forgiveness of self and the acceptance of God’s will. Each new morning, there is faith in sobriety—sobriety not as mere abstinence from alcohol, but as progressive recovery in every facet of my life.

With my A.A. friend, my wife for twenty-five years now, I have joined my family for a joyous reunion. We know a contented and happy life, in which my sister and all the family share renewed and stronger bonds of affection. Since that day, I trust and am trusted.

Edmonton, Alberta